“Jack?” I say, not too loud. “Jack Bennett?”
He turns, and for a split second I see the same blue eyes as Sara’s—sharp, observant, not missing a thing. He takes me in, gaze flicking from my face to my shoes and back again, before a small, surprised smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“You must be…” He hesitates, as if afraid to get it wrong.
“Diane. I was with Sara. Until the end.”
“She was my best friend growing up,” he says. “Even when we were older, we—well…I just?—”
“I know,” I say, cutting him off gently, folding my arms against the wind. “She told me all about you. About your…friendship.”
“Did she… Did she suffer?”
I want to cry, but I can’t. Not here, not yet. “No,” I tell him. “She didn’t.” It’s the truth, or close enough. He doesn’t need to know about the pain she hid or the times she was too weak to move.
Relief, or something like it, seems to wash over him. “Good,” he says softly. “That’s good.” He doesn’t say anything else. He just stands there, hands deep in his pockets.
“She missed you,” I say.
Jack shakes his head, the motion loose and wounded. “I doubt that.”
“She did. She told me about you, about how you two would fish and camp, about the life you two had together. She never forgot.”
He looks away as if unable to bear the reflection of his own past in my eyes. “I should have come sooner. I didn’t know it was… I thought there was more time.” He rubs the back of his neck, a gesture so human it makes me ache.
“None of us did. She was… She was so strong. So?—”
“Stubborn?” Jack nods, a tight, almost imperceptible movement. “She always was. All her life. Even as a kid, she’dnever take no for an answer. Drove her mama crazy.” He huffs a short laugh, shaking his head.
“She never liked being told what to do,” I say, and the relief in my voice is embarrassingly obvious.
We share a smile, the kind that’s half apology, half gratitude. The awkwardness drops away, replaced by a warmth I didn’t expect.
“I’m glad you came,” I tell him. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
“I wasn’t sure, either. But Ellie said I needed to be here. That I’d regret it if I wasn't.”
“I’m glad you listened to her. She’s right, you know.”
“Ellie usually is,” Jack admits. He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He picks at a splinter on the bench, the skin at his knuckles gone white. “You know, not a day goes by that I don’t think about her. About the times we spent together. The good. The bad. And the ugly. They’re all with me, every day.”
The wind rustles the leaves overhead, scattering acorns on the mossy ground. I think of Sara at sixteen, perched on a similar bench, legs too long for her frame, eyes already set on the horizon.
“She forgave you,” I say, hoping it’s true.
Jack blinks, startled. “How do you know?”
“Because she forgave everyone.”
We sit there, strangers joined by the ghost of a woman neither of us can let go of. The wind sharpens, lifting the scent of lilies from the sanctuary and scattering it across the lawn. We stay like that for a long time, two silhouettes tangled in the roots of an old oak, neither of us needing to say goodbye just yet.
When I finally stand to leave, Jack looks up with the tired dignity of someone who’s survived his own worst day.
“Thank you,” he says. The words are simple, almost weightless. But in them I hear all the things we’ll never get to say.
“No, thank you,” I echo, and we share a final nod before I step back inside.
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